


when she wakes, she will shake the world

by redredrobin



Series: thick as thieves [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Kid Fic, M/M, Multi, POV Second Person, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 21:39:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18786727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredrobin/pseuds/redredrobin
Summary: When your daughter was pressed into your arms, when Gaby looked at you, cool and scrutinising, something wrapped tight around your body, and hissed:mine.





	when she wakes, she will shake the world

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the [bad end](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18427163), now here's the good one. 
> 
> title is a quote from Napoleon Bonaparte.

Beside you, Victoria stirs. Her arm curls on your neck, and you are careful not to move lest you wake her.

She’s getting a little too old for this, but you suppose it’s your fault for having indulged her too much when she was a toddler. Evenings in your armchair perhaps the only time you have permitted such flagrant intimacy — you are not as willing as Illya to let the children get away with anything as outrageous as climbing on you or exploring your workshop like Gaby allows. You are not father material and sincerely doubt you ever will be, but you have done your best to be a fair taskmaster, well-practiced from your days of making your partners keep up with you, when you were all with U.N.C.L.E. Your daughter already speaks four languages fluently, knows how to hotwire and treat all the cars in your garage, and shows off her sleight of hand to you daily. You gave her a lockpick set as a birthday present — not your own, you have promised that to her in your heart once she comes of age — and you are pleased that she never parts with it. 

She is magnificent. But you are not surprised about that in the least, considering she comes from you and Gaby. 

She shifts, her arms around you, and you marvel at her for what must be the umpteenth time. You have been since the day Gaby handed her to you, all pink-faced and small, barely able to fit along your forearm. Illya had reached for her, expecting that he would attend to her as he has attended to young David, then barely two years old. You adored the boy the moment you laid eyes on him, but he was very loud and very fragile, and until he grew older you had been plainly uncertain of your role in his life.

But when your daughter was pressed into your arms, when Gaby looked at you, cool and scrutinising, something wrapped tight around your body, and hissed: _mine_. You had shaken your head at Illya, who’d seemed pleasantly surprised, by the small smile he had flashed you. He did take her from you later, when you were reeling from the wonderful living sculpture you held.

"I think I’ll call her Victoria," you had said to yourself, in the empty room. Your victory over yourself, you did not know. You fashioned Napoleon Solo in the midst of a war, forging him in its fire. You had inhabited him for such a long time you no longer knew or cared where the mask stops and you began, also because you knew Illya and Gaby love the man you are and the man you pretend to be. You knew, consciously, that they had changed you.

You'd been surprised to find you looked forward to seeing how Victoria will change you. You have no father to compare yourself to, but that does not bother you. You are certain Illya will cover your shortcomings as he has shielded you with his own body many times, and pulled you from the proverbial flames. He is a better man than you, he can teach your daughter love and steadfastness and a different, more true strength, like he has been teaching his son. You, on the other hand, you will teach them to survive. It’s imperative that they do, even with the safety of the home you have made together with your partners, the farce between your country and Illya’s rages, and you know there will be other wars. You had seen that long ago in the ditches, piled with bodies, in the fields where friendly fire could cut a man down as quickly as an enemy. The world has tasted too much blood to drink of something else. At least for now.

Victoria stirs, and blinks at you in the low light. You had been reading, but you have turned the lamp down and put the book away for her to sleep. "Father," she says, sleepily.

"Good evening, Victoria," you answer. Illya seems to have an endless stream of various Russian diminutives for her, and Gaby defaults to _schatzi_. On paper she is theirs, but she is your daughter first and forever. You have always addressed her by her full name, it is your way of affection. It is thankfully not the way she expresses it to others, but she understands you, the way you are. It’s more than you ever could have asked for in anyone, and it is a gift when you see it in front of you. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes."

"Are you hungry?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Well, go call your mother. You’re quite mistaken if you think I’m carrying you to the kitchen."

She snorts, blinking at you. "I’m not three."

"You are very small," you answer, amiably. 

"I will grow to be very big," she threatens you, with a smile she inherited from you. You lean in for her to kiss your cheek, and she slips off quietly, taking in your unfinished book and your empty glass of wine, and marches off to find Gaby.

* * *

"Napoleon Solo is a silly name," she tells you. 

You raise an eyebrow. Illya has not said anything about your name for many, many years, but you are certain Gaby has a few choice remarks up her sleeve. You can imagine them talking over the car they have in the shop, laughing together. 

But it is you she is having this conversation with, together in the study, a space that you share with Illya. Victoria is working hard at chess, and she is old enough to think about the kind of person she wants to be. You still don’t quite know how you got here, but you have no questions to ask the universe about it. You know you have far better things to do with your time than existentialism.

"I like Teller," she says, her brow drawing together. It’s more reminiscent of Illya than you, especially with the way she is looking at the chess pieces, but you have no complaint. You enjoy seeing how the children have picked up the pieces of the three of you that they like — the association is good, and you allow the resulting affection to fill you with warmth.

"Your mother will be insufferable," you answer, without heat. 

Victoria looks at you, and tilts her chin up defiantly. "I’m not calling myself Victoria Solo," she declares. 

You agree, privately. You do not want her to choose a name that remarks on loneliness, when she has never experienced it — you made sure, and so did Illya and Gaby. In front of her, though, you shrug. The various aliases you had while you were active are not appropriate, and the boy you were is dead. You haven’t spoken to Victoria about where her grandmother’s grave is, or who you were, growing up in the alleys of New York. You will let her have that piece of her history only if she wants it, just as you will hand her your secrets, if she wants those. 

You want her to be something new, something her own. You all did, it’s why the children have no last names, and why you all sat them down to explain it to them. David has already picked Kuryakin; a loaded choice, but you can think of nothing more fitting than Illya’s son trying to be like him.

You regard Victoria with curiosity, and a little wonder as she repeats Gaby’s surname to herself.

"Victoria Teller," you echo after her, a question. The part of her that is yours will never change — she is your mark upon the world, your victory. 

She nods, satisfied.


End file.
